The Road is Long, so Walk it with me
by Welcome to my House of Mirrors
Summary: While Dean and Sam don't have the perfect relationship, Sam knows that in the end he couldn't have asked for a better brother. AU: Winchesters aren't hunters. WARNINGS INSIDE


**WARNINGS: suicidal thoughts and some mild sexual references**

* * *

When Sam is five years old, he hands Dean a piece of paper with a huge grin and a, "De, I drew you a picture! Do you like it? Isn't it pretty?"

Dean studies the drawing and decides that no, it is _not _pretty. There are three stick people crudely drawn in black crayon, one with yellow lines on the top of its head that look a bit like macaroni noodles and the other two with brown squiggles in place of the yellow macaroni noodles, and they all have quite large, disproportionate feet that stick out to the sides. Dean thinks that they're supposed to represent him and Sam and Dad. In the background is what Dean can only assume is a house; it's bright red and lopsided and the black crayon has again been used, this time to draw a huge pointy roof and a few semi-rectangular hole-looking things that Dean guesses are windows. There is no door. In the top right corner is a yellow kind-of circular sun.

So no, definitely _not _pretty as far as drawings go, but when Dean looks into his little brother's smiling, hopeful face, he doesn't have the heart to tell him.

"Yeah, Sammy," he says instead. "Really pretty. I love it."

* * *

When Sam is six years old and says, for the umpteenth time in what can only have been an hour, "Daddy, can you tie my shoe? It came undone again," John lets out a frustrated huff and pulls Sam sharply over to sit on one of the benches along the sidewalk they've been walking on as they return home from the grocery store. He sets the grocery bags down then kneels in front of his son, tying the disobedient shoe with quick, annoyed movements and muttering to himself about stupid kids who can't even keep their own shoes tied. Dean, seeing the hurt on Sammy's face as he hears what their dad is saying, bites his lip. As they get up and start moving again, he makes a decision; when they get home, he's going to teach his brother how to tie his own shoes.

That night Dean sits Sam down on their bedroom floor and hands him his shoes before he puts his own on.

"Like this, Sammy," he explains as he shows Sam what he's supposed to do. He thinks that maybe there's supposed to be something you say for this, some sort of metaphor or something to help you remember, and since he doesn't know one he just makes one up. "Uh, two worms get tangled together, and then one tries to go back underground, but the other one, um, stops him by, mm, giving him a hug, but then they get even more tangled and, uhh, they're both stuck half above and half under." And it kind of sucks, but it'll do.

He practises with Sam for an hour that evening and after that he sees Sam practising almost obsessively every day, muttering Dean's makeshift metaphor to himself as he works.

The next time they go grocery shopping, Sam can tie his shoes all by himself.

* * *

John, as a person, is very... unpredictable, especially when drunk. Dean learns this the hard way one night after he and Sam are supposed to be asleep, and he comes downstairs to ask for some water.

"Dad—" he starts, rubbing his eyes.

"Why the hell are you out of bed?" John asks angrily, smelling strongly of alcohol and slurring his words.

Dean steps back as John advances, alarmed and slightly frightened. "I just wanted some—"

The young boy falls back onto the ground when his dad's hand strikes his face. He stares up at John, pressing his own hand to his stinging cheek and trying not to the moisture welling up in his eyes spill. He thinks he sees a flash of regret in his father's eyes, but then John is turning away and saying gruffly, "Get back upstairs."

"Yes sir."

Dean scrambles up to his room and when he gets to his bed, the tears in his eyes begin to trickle down his skin. He looks over at Sam sleeping peacefully, his body turned towards Dean and his lips slightly parted, and he vows to keep Sammy away from their dad when the man is intoxicated.

John doesn't hit Dean often, but that night is definitely not the last time.

* * *

When Sam is eight years old, he wakes Dean up in the middle of the night with his thrashing about, and when Dean turns to tell his brother to be _quiet_, dammit, he finds the kid's sheets tangled around him and his hair damp with sweat. Frowning, Dean flicks the light on to see the younger boy's cheeks flushed red with fever.

_Aw, crap, _Dean thinks, biting his lip. John isn't here; he's probably at the bar in the middle of the little town, and even though Dean knows where they keep all of their medicine he's still a little worried about getting the dosage right. Sam might be a pain sometimes, but Dean really, _really _doesn't want to kill him.

On the other hand, he also doesn't want the kid to fry in his own body heat, and he's not going to call their dad because chances are he's drunk.

Sighing, Dean gets out of bed and then pads bare-footed over to the bathroom, turning on the light before sliding open the mirrored doors of the medicine cabinet. There are tons of different bottles, Tylenol and Ibuprofen and God knows what else. So Dean grabs the Tylenol because he kind of knows that that one will work, shuts the cabinet, and returns to his and Sam's bedroom.

"Sammy," he prompts. He shakes the younger boy lightly until fever-bright, glassy blue-green eyes blink up at him.

"Dean," Sam moans quietly, "I don't feel good."

"Yeah, I bet you don't kiddo," Dean says, sympathetically because he's experienced this quite a bit himself. "You wanna take some of this medicine for me?"

Sam nods and pulls himself into a semi-sitting position, then takes the one pill Dean hands him and the cup of water that Dean now always keeps by their bed.

"Thanks, De," Sam mumbles as he burrows himself back underneath of the covers.

"Uh huh," Dean replies. "Now can you please keep still?" he adds. After all, he can't care too much.

But Sam is already asleep.

* * *

When Dean goes into eighth grade, he's angry. _All the time_. There's just this burning, boiling, hot feeling running through his veins every minute of every day and it really makes him want to hit something.

So he does.

He starts getting into fights. _All the time_. It's been less than a marking period and already he's gotten into five fights, had seven detentions, and three office referrals. The only reason John really knows about this is because Dean has been coming home with bruises and cuts. Well, that and the fact that after he gave some kid a concussion, his dad was called in for a conference.

According to the principle, Dean is demonstrating some "unusual aggression for boys his age" and it might be a good idea for him to "find a healthy outlet for his pent up anger". So basically, he needs to get something besides the other kids to hit.

Since John is no stranger to aggression himself, he's surprisingly understanding about the whole thing and soon Dean is enrolled in boxing lessons at the local gym, and it _helps_. Dean is surprised by how much so. It feels really good to be able to hit something without getting yelled at. And it's reassuring to know that if anyone has a problem with him, he can kick their ass six ways to Sunday.

Everyone is happy with this new arrangement; Dean's no longer angry all the time, the school no longer has to discipline him for beating people up, and he's stopped wailing on Sammy.

Well, except for when the kid deserves it.

* * *

When Sam is ten years old, the middle school band comes and plays a small concert for the elementary school. Sam is entranced by the way the music sounds and the way the stage lights glint off of the silver and brass and when the trumpets have a soli part he's totally convinced that that is the only thing he'll ever want in his entire life.

The whole rest of the day Sam goes through various conversations and arguments with their dad in his head, trying to determine the best way to convince John to let him play. By the time school ends he's realised that it'll be a futile effort. The disappointment is crushing.

Dean keeps throwing him sideways glances on the walk home, and Sam can't blame him. He usually talks his big brother's ear off, but today he just doesn't have it in him.

"Alright, Sam," Dean says about halfway home, stopping the younger boy with a hand on his chest. "What the hell is your problem today?"

Immediately on the defensive, Sam retorts, "I don't have a problem!"

Dean just snorts and stands there with his arms crossed and his expression expectant.

Sam sighs and bites his lip. Dean won't understand. The only thing he does for fun is hits on girls and punching bags.

Dean rolls his eyes. "Come on, bitch, out with it. It can't be _that _stupid."

"I want to play the trumpet," Sam blurts, saying it quickly so that maybe Dean won't understand him and he'll have the chance to not be an idiot.

But Dean blinks and says, "Oh," and Sam knows that he's heard.

He waits for the teasing, the laughter that's sure to come and is surprised when it doesn't; it's still silent when they start walking again. Sam's not sure whether he should be happy, wary, or disappointed that Dean's not saying anything.

That night, however, when Sam is fighting a losing battle trying to argue his case, he's once again surprised when Dean cuts into the conversation.

"Come on, dad," Dean says, using his best 'persuasive' voice. "You let me get into something. Why can't Sam do it too?"

"Boxing and playing the trumpet are two very different things, Dean," John says exasperatedly.

Dean shrugs. "Yeah, but so what? Sam should have a hobby too. Who cares what it is?"

John grudgingly agrees to let Sam try the instrument. Sam, knowing that it never would have happened had it not been for his big brother, gives Dean a thank-you grin. Dean winks back at him.

* * *

When Sam is thirteen years old, John says he's sorry but he can't come to Sam's band concert. Sam, of course, says that he understands and that it's okay, it won't be anything special anyway, but he's disheartened just the same. It must show in his eyes because Dean comes in as he's buttoning his white dress shirt and says, "Hey, kiddo, how you holding up?"

Immediately suspicious of his brother's nice behaviour, Sam replies, "I'm fine," as he eyes dean from the mirror.

Dean smiles sympathetically. "I know it sucks that dad's not gonna be at your concert. You want me to come hear you play?"

Sam abandons his buttoning in favour of staring at Dean with his mouth half-open. A minute goes by and Dean still hasn't taken it back.

"Who are you and what have you done with my brother?" the younger boy demands finally, finishing up his shirt. Dean rolls his eyes and sits on the edge of the bed that belongs to him.

"Dude," Dean says, "I'm just trying to be nice."

"That's what I'm worried about," Sam mutters. He fiddles with his tie.

"Oh come on, I'm not that bad," Dean protests. Sam shoots him a look, still trying to fix his tie. Dean gets up from the bed and walks over to Sam before turning his brother to face him and beginning to tie the tie himself. "I know how much this means to you, Sammy," Dean says softly as he finishes with the knot, pulling Sam's collar down. "And I'll be there, if you want me to be."

A grin breaks out across Sam's face. "Thanks, Dean," he says.

Dean grins back and musses his hair. "Alright, bitch, go get your trumpet."

Sam sets down the hall, throwing a, "Jerk," over his shoulder.

After Sam's concert is over, Dean takes his trumpet, smiling, and slings his arm around Sam's shoulder and says, "Good job, kiddo. That sounded hard; I could never do it." And Sam feels proud because it _was _hard—the first trumpet part for the Finale Symphony was killer, all high Gs and As and Cs, and his lips are shot to hell but that's okay.

"Thanks, Dean," he says.

* * *

Dean may not be the nicest to his younger brother, but that's his right. It's his _job _to be an asshole to Sammy. It is not other people's jobs, nor their rights.

So when Sam comes home from school one day bruised and bloody, Dean is, well... he's a little bit _angry._

"Who did it?" he growls as soon as he sees his younger brother. Now more than ever he's happy that John enrolled him in boxing. "I'll kick their asses, Sammy, I swear to God—"

"Just leave it, Dean," Sam mumbles, sounding so dejected that Dean lets it go for now. But when he finds those little sons of bitches that did this, there will be hell to pay. Beating Sam up is his job and his job _only._

"Sam," Dean prompts when they're in their room after dinner, "tell me who it was."

"Dean, let it go," Sam says. He's facing away from Dean on his bed. "I took care of it."

"Have you _seen _your face?" Dean asks incredulously.

"Just because I _look_ bad doesn't mean I lost, you jerk," Sam snaps. He sounds annoyed.

"Where did you learn to fight?" Dean pries, still not satisfied.

Finally, Sam rolls over to glare at him. "Where the hell do you _think _I learned, stupid? You just haven't noticed I've gotten better at fighting because you still beat me all the time."

Dean, taken aback, stares at his little brother as he slowly comes to the realisation that yes, Sam _has _gotten better at fighting. He's had to adjust his technique quite a few times lately because Sam has started to be able to counter.

This revelation makes him feel suddenly proud of Sam, and he grins. Sam looks surprised.

"Atta boy, Sammy," Dean chuckles. "You make sure to give 'em what's coming."

Sam's expression softens and he rolls his eyes. "Yeah, yeah," he says. "I learned from the best."

* * *

When Sam is fourteen years old, life is awkward. His voice is cracking and he's always hungry, not to mention the fact that he's starting to grow into his gangly limbs and it hurts like hell.

And then there's Elise.

She causes major problems. _Major _problems. Like major my-pants-suddenly-got-way-too-tight-I'm-too-hard-to-walk-around problems.

Yeah. Not good.

So after looking into her pretty blue eyes gives him a raging hard-on for the fifth time in three days, he decides that enough is enough.

On the walk home from school that day Sam checks to make sure that no one is around to hear (though he's not really sure why; they're essentially walking through the middle of nowhere) and then takes a deep breath and says, "Hey, Dean?"

"What?" Dean responds, and Sam bites his lip, rethinking his resolve. But then Dean is prompting, "_What_?" and Sam is blurting out, "I have a problem."

Dean looks at him funny. "Tell me something I don't know."

"No, jerk." Sam glares. "It's just—" Sam's voice falters and all the heat leaves his expression. He bites his lip again.

Dean's eyebrows shoot up and a wicked grin crosses his face. "Oh, _that _kind of problem, huh? You better not have gotten some girl pregnant, Sammy; Dad'd kill you."

Warm red stains Sam's cheeks. What was he thinking? This was a really bad idea. "Never mind," he mumbles, turning his face away.

"No, hey, c'mon," Dean stops him with a hand on his shoulder and turns him so that they're face-to-face. "What is it, Sam? I promise I won't tease you."

And so Sam, blushing furiously and avoiding his older brother's gaze, calmly explains his problem to Dean. Well, somewhat calmly.

"It's just—there's this girl in my classes and she's really pretty, she's got blue eyes and her hair is kinda red, and—anyway, she's just really pretty and every time I see her I just—you know—" and he gestures awkwardly to his crotch in what he hopes will be a helpful manner.

Dean is smiling at him in this kind of warm, kind of fond way and it's _really _starting to creep him out, so he shifts his weight nervously and waits for Dean to say something. Finally Dean starts walking again, and the fact that his hand is still on Sam's shoulder has the younger boy stumbling for a few steps before he regains his footing.

"There's an easy solution to this problem, Sammy," Dean says as they walk. "Just keep your pipes clean. Wanking isn't a crime; it's completely healthy. Every guy does it. I know it's weird—I was mortified at first—but it's completely natural, and it'll decrease the amount of awkward hard-ons you get when looking at pretty girls in your class."

And he plows on with tips and rules for how to jack off properly, either oblivious to Sam's embarrassment or just choosing to ignore it, and by the time they walk through the door Sam is sure that the red staining his face will never go away.

Later, though, when he can go through a whole day sitting next to Elise without getting an erection, he's gthankful for his brother's advice.

* * *

When Sam is fifteen years old, he starts thinking about his future as though there's a possibility that it might not happen. _If _he becomes a junior. _If _he goes to college. _If _he gets a job, finds a wife, has kids. And he really isn't sure why. He's pretty sure that unless he dies in a car accident, get's shot in the head, or kills himself, he's going to do all of those things.

And then he starts thinking about if he really _wants _to do all of those things. He starts to wonder what the point is. And the more he thinks about it, the more pointless life seems, and the more pointless life seems, the more terrifying it gets. He can't live just for the sake of living. It isn't _enough_.

When he thinks about it in bed he gets so scared that he has to muffle his sobs in his pillow lest he wake Dean. And one day, early in the morning after yet another night of not sleeping, re realises that he just wants it to be over. And every minute of every day after that, he just wants it to be _over_.

After a week of this he can't take it anymore. He grabs the sharpest pair of scissors they own, waits until Dean is occupied with a phone call to a girl, and locks himself in the bathroom.

He traces lightly over the vein that he knows will bleed him out the fastest. The skin just barely breaks, tiny beads of ruby-red blood bubbling up, and Sam is suddenly his with an overwhelming sense of _wrong_. He can't do this. He needs to talk to someone.

So he puts the scissors down, walks into their bedroom, and says, "Dean."

"Not now, Sam," Dean says without looking at him.

"Dean," Sam repeats.

Dean puts his hand over the receiver, still not looking at him. "Sam, I said not now."

"I want to kill myself," Sam says. He's learned that being forward is pretty much the only way to get through to his brother.

And it works. Dean's head snaps up and he looks at Sam for the first time since they've gotten home. Sam can read the alarm in his eyes as he says, "I have to go," and hangs up on whatever girl he's talking to. Sam can't blame him; he knows he looks like hell.

"You'd better not be shitting me, Sam," Dean warns lowly. "This isn't funny."

Sam knows he should be angry with his brother for the accusation, but he can't bring himself to be.

"I'm not," he says wearily, perching himself on the edge of Dean's bed. He turns his wrist up so that he can see the small, curved line where he drew the scissors over his skin, perfectly fitted along the vein. "I almost did it—right now, in the bathroom. I just... couldn't."

Dean's hand is under his chin then, forcing the younger boy to meet his eyes. Sam almost doesn't recognise the emotion in Dean's eyes, it's so rare for him, but then he does.

Dean is _scared_.

"Did you take anything?" he asks, his voice trembling slightly.

Sam shakes his head, dropping his gaze back to the mark on his wrist.

Dean's eyes follow his and he brings his hand down to rub lightly at the scratch with his thumb.

"Why?" he asks, and isn't that such a cliché question?

Sam explains about the ifs and the pointlessness and the fear, and when he's finished Dean pulls Sam against his chest and says, "Jesus _Christ_, Sammy, why didn't you say something _earlier_?"

They tell John together, and Sam gets a therapist and some depression medication and suddenly he can see the good in life again; he can see why it's worth it.

And even when he can't, even when it all seems pointless again, Dean is there to help him, and for that Sam is so, so thankful.

* * *

Dean wants to go to college. He wants to be an architect, have a job and be able to support himself and a family if he ever gets one. But even more than that, he wants to be _out _of here. He would like to say goodbye to Kansas forever.

So when he gets a letter stating that he was accepted into the Colorado State University, the only things keeping him from hightailing it out of there is Sammy.

"You hit him _once_," Dean threatens, glaring icily at John, "he'll be out of here so fast you won't even have time to get up from where I knocked you on your ass. Got it?"

John nods solemnly. "You know I didn't really mean to hurt you, Dean; I was just—"

"Save it," Dean growls. Then his features soften and he says, "Just—take care of him, will you?" John nods, and Dean pulls him in for a hug. "I love you," he says.

"I love you too," John replies. "I'm proud of you, son."

Then Dean pulls away and walks back to his bedroom where Sammy and his bags are waiting.

"Hey, bitch," Dean greets.

"Hey, Dean," he gets in return. He sighs.

"Come on, Sammy, don't be like that. You know I'll always be a phone call away. You ever start feeling down, you call me, got it?" Sam nods, but Dean isn't quite satisfied. "I mean it, Sam. I don't care what time it is, or what I'm doing. You call me."

"Okay, Dean," Sam says. "Will you visit?"

Dean smiles. "Course, bitch. There's no way I'm going to pass up any chance to annoy you."

Sam gives him a half-smile and then stands up, reaching out for a hug.

"Alright, don't go getting sentimental on me," Dean says gruffly as he hugs his brother.

"I'll miss you," Sam says softly.

Dean's smile fades as he realises just how much this is true. "I'll miss you too, Sammy."

* * *

When Sam is sixteen years old, Dean comes home for a visit from college, planning on surprising his dad and little brother.

Unfortunately, he's the one that's surprised this time.

He creeps into the house as quietly as he can, not wanting to ruin the prank, and steps carefully through the living room to the kitchen. Dean is confused when John isn't there; the truck is still parked out front and their dad is usually in the kitchen making dinner at this hour. So when he sees a light underneath of the bathroom door, he goes and knocks.

"Go away," a slightly congested-sounding voice calls from the other side of the wood.

"Sammy?" Dean asks, now even more confused. He pushes the door open without further hesitation and is shocked to find his little brother standing over the sink nursing a bloody nose and a rapidly blackening eye.

"What the hell happened?" Dean demands, although he already has a pretty good idea.

Sam gives him a weak smile from the mirror. "Hey, Dean. It's good to see you. How's college life?"

"Sam," Dean warns. He steps fully into the bathroom and gently grabs his little brother's chin to better inspect the damage. He notes that Sam is getting really tall, now eye to eye with Dean.

The younger boy pulls away, sighing. "It's nothing, Dean."

Dean grinds his teeth and then tries a more forward approach. "Was it dad?"

Sam looks surprised before his walls come up and he looks away. "Dean, can we please not talk about this right now?"

Dean grips his shoulder and looks at him sadly through the mirror even though Sam can't see it. "Okay, Sammy. You been taking your meds?"

Sam nods and that's the end of the conversation for a while. Dean helps him dress his wounds, gives him some of the leftover pizza he finds in the fridge, and then sits on the couch while Sam goes to his room.

And he waits.

By the time John finally comes home, Dean is so furious that he only just remembers to keep his voice down.

"You son of a bitch," he says lowly the minute John steps through the door. "I warned you not to touch him. I should deck you so hard you can't tell your head from your ass."

John, looking decidedly regretful, opens his mouth to say something, but Dean cuts him off.

"I'm taking him back to Colorado with me tomorrow," he says. His tone allows no argument. John just nods and mutters, "Maybe it's for the best," before heading off to his room.

Dean takes a deep breath and returns to the room he used to share with his brother. Sam is fast asleep, so Dean packs his things as quietly as he can, but evidently it's still not quiet enough.

"Dean?" Sam mumbles sleepily about halfway through Dean's packing. "What're you doin'?"

Dean bites his lip. "You're gonna come live with me, kiddo," he reveals finally, and Sam sits up, rubbing at his eyes.

"But you can't—"

"Yes I can."

"I can't—"

"You can and you will, Sammy," Dean says firmly. He and his girlfriend are already living together; what harms can one more person cause?

Sam simply watches him for a moment before asking, "What about school?"

"I'll take care of it," Dean assures. "Don't worry."

"Did dad ever hit you?"

Dean pauses, his hand on one of Sam's hoodies, before sighing. "Sometimes," he admits. "I tried to keep you away from dad when he was drunk, and he didn't do it often."

It's quiet for a minute after that, and just when Dean thinks that Sam's fallen asleep again, Sam says, "Thank you, Dean."

Dean smiles. "Yeah, yeah. Now go to sleep, bitch."

* * *

When Sam is nineteen years old, he's been living with Dean and Dean's used-to-be-girlfriend and now-new-wife Izzy for about three years, and he himself has had a steady girlfriend for about a year. Morgan was kind of shy and kind of cautious and wanted to take their relationship slowly, and Sam was perfectly okay with that.

And now that Morgan wants to take their relationship to the next level, Sam has no idea what he's supposed to do. Dean laughs when Sam brings up the issue.

"It's easy, Sammy," he says, smirking. "Girls love it when you lick their—"

"Dean!" Sam's face is so red he's sure it's never going to go away.

Dean laughs until there are tears running down his cheeks at Sam's expression before calming down. "I'm just saying, Sam," he chuckles. Sam glares at him.

"Seriously, though," Dean says, "just do what feels good. Lots of foreplay, and be gentle. That's important."

Sam nods, taking it all down in memory and trying to calm the butterflies in his stomach. He looks up to see Dean looking at him with that half-warm half-fond expression that freaked him out all those years ago. It freaks him out now too.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" he demands.

Dean suddenly grabs him in a hug that feels like it's crushing his ribs and pulls him so he's no longer standing four inches over his older brother. "Little Sammy's growing up!" he exclaims, mussing Sam's hair. "He's finally gonna get some!"

"_Dean_!"

* * *

When Sam is twenty-three years old, life is crazy. These past few months have been a mess of "Dean, what ring should I get?" and "Dean, how the hell am I supposed to propose to her?" and "The wedding is only _four months away_," and "Jesus Christ, I don't think I can do this."

Now he's standing at the altar staring down the aisle, praying for the strength not to pass out from nerves but knowing that if he does, his best man will be there to catch him. Izzy is smiling at him from the audience where she holds her and Dean's two-year-old son Brennan's hand and keeps her other arm wrapped around their newborn daughter Adrianne.

"Dude, relax," Dean whispers in his ear. He sounds amused. Sam takes a deep breath and tries to do what his brother says.

Sam's heart nearly melts in his chest when Morgan steps through the church doors and begins to walk down the aisle. She smiles, her blue eyes glinting softly in the light and her dark hair falling in heavy waves around her pale face. In the long-sleeved, lacy wedding dress, she is the most beautiful thing that Sam has ever seen. He didn't know it was possible to love someone so much.

He doesn't really pay attention to the preacher as he speaks, says "I do," when the time comes and slides the ring onto Morgan finger and then kisses her like they're the only ones in the room.

At the reception, Dean asks him to dance and he rolls his eyes but agrees.

"She is so out of your league, you know that," Dean teases, but his green eyes are soft and his smile is proud. Sam laughs.

"All too well," he agrees, and then looks back to where Morgan is dancing with a giggling Brennan. "I love her so much."

"I know you do, kiddo," Dean says. "I know you do."

* * *

When Sam is twenty-five years old, Morgan tells him that she wants to have kids.

"What if I'm not a good dad?" Sam worries when he goes over to visit Dean at his house. Morgan and Izzy have gone shopping.

Dean laughs. "Come on, Sam, lighten up." He bounces Adrianne on his hip, making her squeal in delight. "Parenting is the most natural thing in the world. You just can't resist loving them, they're so cute." He kisses Adrianne's nose. "So you got any names figured out?"

"Well," Sam begins, "if it's a boy, Will, and if it's a girl, Marie."

Dean nods appreciatively and then rolls his eyes when Sam starts fretting again. "Adri," he says, passing the little girl off to his younger brother, "tell uncle Sam not to worry."

"Don' wowwy, unca' Sam," she pipes up, throwing her tiny arms around Sam's neck. The younger man laughs.

"Alright, kiddo, I won't," he assures.

"Seriously, Sam," Dean intervenes. "You'll be a great dad." He winks. "And if not, I'll take the little munchkins off your hands."

Sam laughs again and says, "I'm sure you will, Dean. Thanks."

"No problem, Sammy," Dean says. "It's about time you guys had kids anyway."

Sam smiles.

* * *

**So tell me what you think! =)**


End file.
